Peters’s expression nearly matched Trumbull’s for blandness, but he turned his attention back to Spector. “Perhaps you might remind your team that we’re colleagues—of a sort.”
I reminded myself—though I knew I lied—that this man had no power over me. That I had more right to be here than he. I stood. “Mr. Peters.” He blinked, looked me over—and I saw in his eyes the usual dismissal of a woman found unappealing. I could not let that hold. I strode around the table, approached him though all my instincts screamed of danger. “You haven’t apologized for Saturday. Your—” Calling him their master would be a poor choice of words. “Mr. Barlow has not apologized. The way you treated us was unconscionable, and it is not your place to insist that we let it drop. We had an extremely unpleasant afternoon, and Mr. Spector recognizes that.”
He took a step back. “My apologies,” he said without feeling. He whirled away without waiting for reply. I remained standing, watching, not daring to turn my back for long enough to reclaim my seat. So I saw him approach the desk, heard him attempt to charm the librarian and traverse the same refusals we had initially encountered.
Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention: Trumbull had stiffened. I’d thought her face bland before, but now she looked like she’d forgotten to animate it entirely. She reached smoothly across the table and took my copy of Cth?at Aquadingen, flipped to a specific page, and made a complex gesture over the symbol thereon. She then found the passage I’d been reading, returned the book to its original place on the table, and resumed taking her notes on the journal.
Peters’s voice rose in frustration. He brought it under control, clearly with some effort, and returned to our table. “Miss Marsh,” he said. “May I speak with you in private?”
Spector looked up sharply, and Charlie started to rise. But I didn’t want to get everyone involved in an argument—not until I knew what he wanted. “Of course.”
Out in the hall, he turned to me. “Miss Marsh. You’re from Innsmouth.” A statement, not a question.
I swallowed the fear that welled up at his words; it was hardly a secret he could use against me. “I’m certain my files say as much.”
“And it was Ephraim Waite’s old case that brought us out here in the first place. Your people knew the body-snatching trick—and even if the raid in ’28 was an overreaction, you were never exactly loyal Americans. The Waites and the Marshes … pretty closely related, right? The town’s leading lights.”
I bit back a fitting response. I needed to tread carefully here. But I could feel sweat on my palms, and the scent of it wafted up like some nauseating incense. “Our families are related, yes. But Ephraim Waite was a criminal, and his studies an aberration.”
“Really? It sounded like your leaders were as concerned with covering up his ‘crimes’ as punishing them.”
I sought an answer that wouldn’t simply mimic Caleb’s excuses—there was all too much justice in Peters’s accusation, though none in the smug insinuation alongside.
He went on: “And here you are, coincidentally, at the heart of the investigation despite having no clearance, and no special expertise that isn’t itself suspicious.” His voice grew honed. “Whatever you thought to get out of this, I suggest you watch yourself.” He stalked away.
The librarian came over as I returned to the table. “I presume, Professor, that he did not in fact have your permission to access On the Sending Out of the Soul?”
I winced, distracted from my alarming conversation with Peters; if such a book had originally come from Innsmouth it was not a volume I’d been permitted to read as a child. Trumbull said only, “Certainly not.” The librarian nodded and left us to our studies.
I fell back into my chair, strength draining from my shoulders.
“Are you all right?” asked Caleb. His voice dropped, and I barely caught the next words. “You sounded like Mom.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I bent over my book, biting the inside of my lip. I would not cry; Peters might come back. Examining the section of the book that Trumbull had found so easily, I discovered a series of defensive counterspells with varying strength and specificity.
Trumbull nodded at the page. “Barlow’s people do seem to carry quite a range of those little talismans. Fragile things.”
I read, and regained a little of my equilibrium. Time passed, and eventually Trumbull stood and stretched.
“‘Advanced’ Calculus calls,” she informed us. She gathered up her notes. “If that illiterate wants to sit in again, I’m going to break his mind into such fragments that the asylum will spend years piecing them back together.”
Spector frowned, obviously trying to decide whether she was serious. At last he smiled—a little forced—and said: “First, they will take you in for questioning again, and I will not be in a position to retrieve you. Second, I will make you fill out all the associated paperwork.”
She blinked, then smiled—not forced. “As you say.” She gave a little half-bow. “I’ll spare him.”
After she left, Spector tapped my shoulder. “Walk with me?”
I stood, but glanced back at Audrey. “Are you certain you don’t need to get back to Hall? I’m glad to have you, but surely they’ll miss you.”
She tapped the trials of J. Pyre. “I need to be here right now. You’re all going over to Hall tomorrow, right?” Spector nodded. “I’ll get a ride then. I’ll plead hysteria over Leroy’s injury, if I need to explain myself.” She added more gently: “There’s a sandwich shop at the corner of High and West that does good business with the townies—not as overrun by boys as the cafeterias on campus. If the gate isn’t awful and you two are going for a walk anyway, do you mind picking up lunch?”
Grateful to do something more useful than wander the campus again, I agreed readily—though the thought of passing the gate still made my stomach clench. Better to go than be imprisoned by my own fear.
The air was clear today, the walks swept and salted.
We walked a ways before Spector spoke. “The Yith…”
“What of them?”